


Last Christmas

by SilverMiko



Series: Sight Unseen [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ASiB, Big Brother Mycroft, Christmas, F/M, Molly is a BAMF, Mycroft is everyone's awkward big brother who hates feelings, Sherlock is an idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-26 23:41:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9931883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverMiko/pseuds/SilverMiko
Summary: The infamous Christmas Party occurs, in which Sherlock goes on a deductive roll he's about to regret. He's not very good at human emotion but for once, for Molly Hooper, he will do better.Set during ASIB.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the "Sight Unseen" collection, and references things that occur in the previous one-shots, especially "Chemistry".

He should be focused on the case, on the mystery of the alluring (and rather smugly so) Irene Adler, on overarching issue of Jim Moriarty, but Sherlock Holmes found himself in the last situation he wanted to be in at the moment: a holiday party that John insisted they throw at Baker Street, inviting what few acquaintances tolerated them and John’s current paramour...Sarah? It was hard to keep track some days of John Watson’s girlfriends. Still, it beat bucolic boredom with his parents and Mycroft. At least he remained in London.  
Even though this Christmas party was the last way he wanted to spend his night, and despite the admittedly snarky way he commented on everyone saying “hello” now and “oh dear lord” as she walked in, a part of him was glad for Molly’s sudden presence. Maybe he could get her opinion on one of his experiments in the kitchen. She was, if anyway, quite good at bouncing scientific queries off of. That slight gratitude for her showing up lasted all of about the two seconds before she shrugged out of her coat, anyway and John’s exclamation of “Holy Mary…”  
It only took the briefest side glance to one) be slightly stunned by her change of appearance and two) make deductions. He also had enough time to catch the surprised (and frankly annoyingly obvious and unwelcome) look on LeStrade’s face as he took in the tight black dress that hugged Molly’s form like a second skin. It was usual choice of dress, she seemingly preferred more A-line type skirts and dresses on the few occasions she forwent trousers. In fact, that last time he recalled her wearing a dress of similar nature was...October 31st, 1999. Oh.  
He moved to his laptop, keen to focus on something else, the game, John’s blog. As he called John over to discuss his blog count, Molly and Mrs. Hudson began making small talk which turned painfully awkward fast when Molly brought her work into it after inquiring about Mrs. Hudson’s hip. She really wasn’t the best at casual jokes, largely due to her own obvious and underlying embarrassment at her own words in the end.  
“Don’t make jokes, Molly,” he suggested, aware it probably came off more as an order but he couldn’t be too bothered about how she might have interpreted it. He was, in the end, just doing her a favor and saving her from own heightened awkwardness.  
She continued to make small with LeStrade, who was under the unfortunately impression he and his wife were reconciling. Naturally, he corrected him without thinking. P.E. teacher, of course, the signs were all there. Honestly, LeStrade would be smart to cut his losses. But they ignored him and Molly continued her parade of nervous magpie small talk with John. Going to Harriet’s, ‘Sherlock had been complaining’...  
Excuse her?! He gave her a quick side glance, raising a brow. He had told her that in confidence, alone in the lab as they worked, when he didn’t understand why John would ditch investigating in favor of another dull Christmas with his alcoholic sister.  
Molly seemed to pick up on his look, and correcting herself. “Saying…”  
John responded and bless him, he apparently thought she was on the wagon. Sherlock really was starting to find all this chatter pointless. Didn’t they know he was trying to focus? The criminal element hardly stopped for Christmas, why should he?  
Well, time to speed things up.  
“See you got a new boyfriend, Molly, and you’re serious about him,” he quipped, turning his attention back towards her now.  
God, she must really be nervous for whatever was coming later and something unpleasant uncoiled more in the pit of his stomach. He was, of course, aware of what her efforts tonight were for. Molly Hooper would only wear a dress like that, one that made her fidget, for one reason: another new man, and likely another new disappointment. He had hoped she’d learn her lesson after Moriarty but alas.  
She made a soft gasp, then a breathy laugh of “What? Sorry what?”  
“And you’re seeing him this very night and giving him a gift,” Sherlock continued to deduce, feeling energized by sharing his observation. He might as well get the truth out of her in case this latest boyfriend ended up being another consulting criminal.  
“Take a night off, Sherlock,” John insisted, though there was something weary in his tone. LeStrade walked over to him, putting a glass down.  
“Shut up and have a drink.”  
Why were they so keen on shutting him down? It’s not his fault they couldn’t see what was so obvious in front of them.  
“Oh come on, surely you’ve all seen the present at the top of the bag, perfectly wrapped with a bow? All the others are slapdash at a best,” he continued, standing up while Molly looked over to her bag of gifts, her demeanor growing more anxious. Yes, he was right and she was confirming all his suspicions without a single word as he walked over to the bag and picked the gift in question up. “It’s for someone special then?”  
He knew he was right, but there was something in him that for once didn’t particularly like being correct. Something scratching at him slightly that he couldn’t quite name or wanted to dwell on but he knew whatever it was also prompted him to keep going, keep deducing, keep making some grand point. If he had stopped for even a fraction of a second he’d see how more and more distressed Molly was becoming, looking around as if to beg for help, and that perhaps he should have, indeed, just stopped.  
But he didn’t. He kept pouring out observations, so caught in their truths he failed to notice Molly wasn’t the only one who’s mood shifted, failed to notice everyone’s growing dismay, or the pitying almost hopeless look John was giving her.  
“Shade of red echoes the lipstick, either an unconscious association, one that she’s deliberately trying to encourage. Either way Miss Hooper has loooove on her mind, the fact that she’s serious about him is clear in that fact that she’s even giving a gift at all. That would suggest long term hopes however forlorn and that she’s seeing him tonight as evident from her makeup and what she’s wearing,” he said, faster and faster as he moved his hand to flip open the gift tag. He probably had no right to pry, to see who it was for, but he had to know. It suddenly became important to him to know the name of the bloke Molly Hooper was going to such trouble for, putting all her emotional eggs in a basket over. “Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts…” he trailed off as he read the feminine cursive writing, starkly clear, the name so horribly horribly familiar.  
Oh...oh..  
Normally so composed, he could not help the shift his features, the surprise in his face. He practically gasped and swallow in shock as he saw the words.  
‘Dearest Sherlock Love Molly x x x’

He hadn’t seen...no, he had. Hadn’t he played upon her growing attraction to get his way often when he needed something? But it was one thing to see, it was another to actively process it. He hadn’t observed. Wasn’t he telling the same thing to John?  
Every encounter, since the moment he had first met her, played through his head like a montage reel in the span of seconds: her attitude his college, her more mousey one in recent years since working together at St. Bart’s. Every unsure bit of small talk, overdone smile, the eagerness to help and ease in which he was able to manipulate when she was less eager, the glances he often ignored, the way she had asked if he wanted coffee...and he had said black, two sugars. But that hadn’t been what she was asking, and he bloody should have known.  
And why him anyway? Didn’t she know? Hadn’t he said time and time again that this was not really his area? She knew, of course she knew; they’d known each other on and off again for over a decade. She wasn’t stupid, one of the few people he didn’t actively deem stupid, so why would she waste her feelings on him of all people? Why let him walk all over her? He knew he had been doing, he couldn’t pretend anymore. Couldn’t force himself to not acknowledge it, not now when he had ungraciously dragged it into the open before he could realize what he was doing.  
He had been so, so wrong about her and now he had unintentionally put her on the spot in the cruelest way. Because what he had also failed to somehow notice was that everyone else in the room somehow saw what he had not, and had seen it quite some time ago.  
He heard more than saw her shaky, small gasp, as if she were trying not to sob then and there. While he such displays of emotion tended to make him disinterested and uncomfortable, in this case he couldn’t blame her if she collapsed in a fit of tears right then and there in his parlor. And he wouldn’t say one word about it, for once. He had said quite enough as is.  
Yet again, she surprised him.  
“You always say such horrible things. Every time, always. Always…”her voice was shaky, she was trying not to cry and doing a commendable job given the circumstances. Her words struck him, and he would have given anything to be able to deny them but just has his observations had been painfully true in the end, so were hers. It was something he tried always to deny, not think about, and the thing she never said either, as if they were both keen to just go along pretending it was all okay when it wasn’t and hadn’t been. Not since “Jim From IT”, where the cracks in her sunny veneer were starting to show. Where he was starting to, now and again, wonder if perhaps he was wrong in his approach towards her. If he was sometimes being actively mean to her. But he shoved it down, every time always, because it was unnecessary and too human. Because why should he be different around her than anyone else? Because he *was* different around her sometimes, and that was the problem.  
He wanted to not care, to shrug it off like he always did when it came to emotions. They’d forgive him eventually anyway because he was Sherlock Holmes and wasn’t the game the most important thing in the end anyway? He turned to walk away from this, like he would have in the past, to just let it go and hope they moved on with a few more glasses of wine like nothing had happened.  
No. He couldn’t do this, be like this. Not to Molly Hooper. Not with her standing there like that, raw with pain and embarrassment. Not with her bruised heart put unwillingly on the line by him, the very man she….  
He would be better than that, at least this once. She deserved better. He turned back towards her, unable to look her in the face for the moment.  
“I am sorry, forgive me,” he said, his jaw clenching in effort to get it right, in effort not to let the wash of upset and guilt coursing through him completely win. He could see out of the corner of his eye John’s surprised look that he was even apologizing, the ‘machine’ was actually showing contrition and remorse for being out of line. He hated that too, the sudden vulnerability of it all. It really was so human. He could practically hear Mycroft’s scathing remark, “Getting soft over goldfish, brother mine?” But he would suffer it, because no matter how hard this was, he knew it was still a hundred times worse for her right now.  
He could have left it at the apology, but still he shifted towards closer towards her. The hesitant uplift of her eyes, as if she were almost afraid of what he’d do next, cause a sharp discomfort in his chest. Nonetheless, he bent his head towards her.  
“Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper.”  
And with all the tenderness he could muster, he pressed a kiss to her flushed cheek, her skin so warm under his lips.  
He stood back, and as her featured lifted in utter surprise at his actions a pleasured moan filled the room and she blinked wildly.  
As if on cue to add further elcat to the evening, Irene Adler’s ringtone filled the room as a now flustered Molly promptly denied it was her and Mrs. Hudson commented on what a rude noise it was.  
It really was shaping up to be a vexing Christmas.

 

***

Ripping the silver bow from her hair, Molly shimmed out of the uncomfortably tight black dress she’d bought on sale at Marks and Spencer, raking agitated fingers through her hair as she grabbed a comfortable pair of trousers and red and white Christmas jumper. Her night might have gone sour but she’d still bloody well try and salvage what holiday spirit she could.  
All the effort on her hair, her makeup, that fucking dress…only to be humiliated by that far-too-brilliant and stupid man who frankly didn’t deserve to have such a hold on her heart. He hadn’t realized, of course. Oh, he knew it as a crush; attraction at best, one that he took advantage of and she knew he took advantage of but said nothing to stop it because somewhere along the way she had forgotten how to be herself around him. She tried so hard to be ultra pleasant and casual, as if that’s what he might want. She should have known...she did know better, but she kept up her ridiculous hope that maybe someday he would actually notice.  
But he hadn’t, and sometimes she felt it was more a willful choice than total obliviousness. He liked to fancy himself unsentimental and unfeeling, but she had been around him enough over the years to see that it was armor he wore, a wall he surrounded around himself with for the sake of cold reason and logic, for his beloved “Game”. If there was nothing else but that, she would have cut her losses years ago. Perhap that’s what made it worse, that she had seen glimpses of the man with an actual heart, that sometimes she lived for those brief moments where he seemed almost human.  
And it needed to stop, for both their sakes. As unwittingly cruel as he could be, it wasn’t fair for her to completely blame him for her complicated feelings, or expect more from him. And she, well...at least maybe now they could be more honest in their interactions. At least maybe she knew where she stood now. She had a fairly strong suspicion the superfluous flirtations he often employed were a thing of a past now. They couldn’t go forward anymore as the consulting detective and his pet pathologist mouse.  
“Oh sod it!” she exclaimed, not in the mood to be cooped up in her flat sulking. Toeing on her boots and putting her coat back on, she made her way to the pub around the corner where at least if she was going to feel sorry for herself she’d do it in the proper English way with pint or three and some chips.  
The pub was festive with Christmas lights and happy people as Molly sat in a corner booth, halfway into a pint as she listened to the dodgy quality speakers blast music. Currently, George Michael was becoming a fickle ex-lover and Molly could commiserate.  
“A man undercover and he tore me apart, indeed,” she murmured, moth pressed against the rim of her glass.  
“Talking to an imaginary friend, Miss Hooper?”  
She glanced up, and rolled her eyes.  
Were all the Holmes’ set on ruining her night? Mycroft stood at her table, looking far too overdressed in his suit and ever-present umbrella for the normal pub crowd.  
“Please, do take a seat,” she gestured.  
He slid into the seat across from her, looking as if he were almost uncomfortable sitting there. He probably thought he was too good for the place, but here he was again like clockwork this time of year. She wondered if he thought she was oblivious to his actions, that it wasn’t obvious in the past three years that he found some reason to make a show of needing to speak with her about Sherlock every Christmas Eve. At first she thought it was some rare moment of sentiment for his brother, but then she realized what he was really about: he had a file on her, he knew the very thing she always pretended wasn’t a thing this time of year, that she always tried not to acknowledge. Why she was always first to volunteer to fill in for people on these two days.  
She knew it wasn’t like he cared for her, or that they were friends, but what did know was it was his own strange way of saying thanks for saving Sherlock’s life that awful night years ago. She hadn’t let on last year, but perhaps she was tired once and for all of pretending for the Mr. Holmeses in her life.  
“Got my holiday card, then?” she asked. It wasn’t sarcasm, she really was the type of person to send cards and for some reason every year Mycroft had made it to her rather short list of recipients. Well, his assistant anyway who she had long suspected was more than just an administrative assistant professionally and personally.  
“Yes, as wholly unnecessary as it is every year except to give Eliza some perverse satisfaction at guessing what adorable animal theme you’ll choose next.”  
“Don’t you mean ‘Anthea’?” she teased.  
“Ah, Dr. Watson still hasn’t learned her actual name then? How quaint. Surprised you haven’t corrected him yet.”  
Molly shrugged.  
“Something tells me John would be quite put off that I know something so important that he doesn’t.”  
“Yes well he isn’t terribly good with realizing Sherlock has more than one toy. No offense,” Mycroft said, in that funny way that really came across as actually meaning offense. Sherlock was often oblivious to how biting his blunt sarcasm could be, Mycroft sharpened and wielded it like a weapon.  
“Can we cut to the chase please? Sherlock’s still clean, he hasn’t been using, he’s rather distracted by whatever case he’s on now, his mobile for some reason makes a moaning noise, and he’s absolute rubbish at parties or capable of human emotion.”  
She hadn’t realized her eyes were starting to water and damn it all, this was the last person she wanted to cry in front on.  
Mycroft lifted an eyebrow.  
“So he finally ticked you off after all this time? He must have been very naughty. Shall I have Mummy leave him coal in his stocking?”  
Molly, who had by now buried her face in her hands, snorted and choked back the tears.  
“Sometimes I do wonder which of you is less worse than the other, but right now I’d say you’re in the lead.”  
It was some consolation that he appeared taken aback by the remark.  
“Well, he must have done quite a number then, but if you’re expecting tea and sympathy from me…”  
She barked a laugh then, shoving a chip into her mouth.  
“At least we know where we stand. And while that brief status report was efficient as always, that’s not why I’m here. I require your professional skills on a matter of the highest authority and I’ve been told countless times you’re the best.”  
“Oh?” she asked, raising an eyebrow  
“Yes, and speaking of I’m sorry to say you’ll have to put up with my dear brother’s presence for a few moments longer tonight. If you could meet us at the morgue in about an hour?”  
She sighed, looking into her pint. She wanted to say no, it was on the tip of her tongue, but she didn’t. Mycroft wouldn’t bother asking her if it were trivial, she knew full well he was more important than let on, and some part of her did feel a bit chuffed that he was asking her out of all the pathologists in London.  
But having to see Sherlock so soon was not exactly fantastic.  
“All right, but I expect in return the British Government can pick up my dinner bill?”  
“Of course.”  
She grabbed her coat and left, deciding on a taxi over the Tube. She wasn’t feeling quite up to dealing with a crowd at the moment.  
When she finally arrived, white coat on, and wheeling the body of a young woman out she wondered who the mystery victim was. She was in good shape, damaged face aside, probably same age as her. Before she could ponder more, Mycroft and an uncharacteristically sheepish Sherlock arrived. He had remarked that it didn’t need to be her to come in, and under the words she could hear what he was trying to actually say, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I don’t want to be more of a bother tonight, I’m sorry…”  
Maybe tomorrow she’d feel more forgiving.  
“It’s alright, every else is busy with Christmas.”  
She didn’t miss the look he gave her at that statement, the hint of pity and more realization. He had forgotten, but why had that surprised her? Why should he pay attention to those silly little human details? It was why she was available to come in that night, why she was always available this time time of year, why Mycroft made those silly pretenses of checking in with her on his stubborn sibling; Molly Hooper had no one to spend Christmas with. No family, no lover. The Christmas party would have been the first time in a long time she’d spent Christmas Eve not at Bart’s or alone in her flat. It was the first time she would have been spending Christmas with him outside work.  
And she knew the moment he further realized just how badly and utterly he had fucked up.  
Tomorrow. She’d worried about this tomorrow. Work now, be professional. Assess and report.  
But she couldn’t pretend she wasn’t unhappy, couldn’t pretend to be cheerful or smile. She felt cold in the way her purposely tacky holiday jumper could never warm up and she hated it. So she kept her talk short, her demeanor clinical. And both Holmes brothers definitely noticed.  
It was quick in the end, Mycroft asking Sherlock to identify the mysterious her, Molly warning about the face, Sherlock’s odd request to see the rest of her...how did he confirm the identify like that?  
He left the room, going into the hall, and Molly finally voiced the question she didn’t want to ask with him present.  
“Who is she? How did Sherlock recognize her from...not her face?”  
Mycroft gave her some barely reasonable reply, almost as if trying to avoid an uncomfortable subject while trying to somehow spare her. He gave her a brief reply and left, presumably to confer with and perhaps console Sherlock.  
Had she gotten it all wrong? Was the reason Sherlock didn’t notice her feelings not out of a lack of emotion, but because he was otherwise engaged with another? It seemed preposterous and yet whoever this woman was, Sherlock knew her and knew her naked form.  
“Next year I’m just taking a bloody holiday for the holidays,” she murmured to herself, to the dead mystery woman who may or may not have been her romantic rival. 

***

Sherlock stalked across Tower Bridge, the taste of news agent stand cigarettes (and not just the disappointing low tar Mycroft had gifted him with) still on his lips and his thoughts still weighing heavy. Mycroft of course would assume it was a “danger night” and that Sherlock was feeling unstable, and course it would be for all the wrong bloody reasons. He would think it was Sherlock mourning the tragically late Irene Adler, the exceedingly clever woman who he would admit was pretty and had stirred a faint sense of physical attraction within him. But that didn’t meant he was suddenly foolish either. Maybe he would feel worse about it were she actually dead, but that hadn’t been her body on the slab and if she were smart she’d take advantage of the head start he gave her and get the hell of out dodge. Go somewhere and live an inconspicuous life. He probably shouldn’t have lied, but then again he had to admit he did somewhat begrudgingly respect her cleverness and perhaps that was why he lied to Mycroft. Maybe it was his way of also putting the case to bed, a phrasing he could just hear Irene having a field day with in his mind, the innuendo she might have come up with whispering across his mind. No, that wasn’t what was troubling him, it was another woman altogether and the last woman anyone these days ever seemed to think of, him included. Molly Hooper.  
For all his brilliance, for all he was, as John said, full of himself, he had never felt more like an ass than he did right now and he hated that he even felt this bad. He had never really given much thought to how people reacted to his words or deductions because he was just telling the truth and wasn’t it better to be honest? Since when had he actually cared if he upset anyone?  
No, not just anyone. He specifically cared to not upset *her* and if he were honest he knew when he suddenly cared. And it wasn’t sudden at all, nor convenient really but there it was and he couldn’t delete it even if he tried, he couldn’t delete her if he tried. But he never would, though right now he refused to examine further the why. Couldn’t. It was too much and that was not a part of him necessary or relevant right now. Tomorrow, he would restructure his armor and he would get back to work, back to the Game. Back to his carefully cultivated self.  
But tonight, he found himself suddenly outside her Borough flat, knowing he still needed to try and make it if not right, a little better between them. Because tomorrow he would try to distract himself from this, he would go on acting outwardly like it was fine but everything had changed, and even though he refused to scratch beyond the surface of why this mattered he knew he didn’t want her staying upset with him, didn’t want her to stop working with him, and didn’t want her to stop being there as she always had been. Maybe it was selfish of him, but what else was new?  
So he rang the buzzer. A few long minutes passed, and he wondered if she would even respond.  
“What do you want, Sherlock?” her voice answered. She knew it was him, of course she did. Who else rang her flat at odd hours? God, she sounded weary.  
“October 31st, 1999,” he stated, hoping she’d remember.  
She didn’t reply. He wondered if perhaps she had forgotten. It had been eleven years ago, a lifetime ago and not everyone had his kind of memory. But then the door opened and there she was, in a pair of ridiculous looking red and white reindeer pajamas under a Edinburgh University zip-up hooded jumper. He half-smiled, wondering if she had unconsciously remembered after all. She crossed her arms, hugging herself to keep warm in the chilly night air.  
“So? October 31st, 1999? I’m listening,” she said, looking up at him.  
“Maybe we should go upstairs before you catch hypothermia.”  
She shook her head. No, of course not. He wasn’t back in good graces enough for that. He sighed and unravelled his scarf, wrapping it around her. It was an intimate gesture, no doubt about it, especially for Sherlock. But he would try, because he needed to get this right.  
“What are you doing?”  
“Well I’d rather you not expire from frostbite before I finish what I need to say,” he said.  
She nodded, but it was a long moment before his hands moved from the fabric of the scarf, but finally he stepped back.  
“You were saying?” she asked.  
“Halloween night.”  
He saw her brows raise a fraction, and from the faint color rising in her cheeks he thought it was safe to say she did remember.  
“What about it?” she asked, clearly wondering why of all things he was bringing it up. It had been almost an unspoken agreement between them that they never spoke of it, but needs must.  
“It was my first kiss.”  
Her mouth opened slightly, surprised, as he continued.  
“A trivial thing to remember for me, I know, if not for the peculiar coincidence that the last kiss I experienced happened in the same place as the first seven months later.”  
She took a shaky breath.  
“Sherlock…” she said, softly. Her lips pressed together, her brown eyes wide and luminous in the streetlight. She nodded her head, coming to some conclusion.  
“Thank you.”  
He gave her a small smile, turned and started to leave down the short stairs of her flat building’s stoop.  
“Wait, your scarf!”  
He paused, turning his head as she raced down the steps, taking the scarf off and pressing it back into his hand.  
“Merry Christmas, Sherlock Holmes.”  
She turned and went back inside, and as he headed for the Tube station he wrapped his scarf back around his neck. It was warm and smelled like her.  
He wasn’t a particularly sentimental person, let alone a good person most of the time, but just for tonight he could make an exception. Just for a few minutes, he could let the walls come temporarily down.  
There was a dark storm coming, he was sure of it. Who knew for certain how they’d weather it? Not even the great Sherlock Holmes could predict that.


End file.
